Wounded
by DoctorSherlock
Summary: John puts his life on the line for Sherlock, and that puts a new perspective on everything, for both him and Sherlock. Tentative Sherlock/John. Light. Nothing too intense. Could be a twoshot, give me opinions.
1. Chapter 1

The shot rang out in Sherlock's ears, but he barely noticed it. All he could notice was what was going on in front of him. All he could do was see. He could not move. His limbs were frozen with shock; they felt like they had been glued in place permanently or were made of cement. Everything had happened so quickly, he was unable to react properly. He was merely an observing statue, breathing, feeling stone that longed to reach out and stop this.

Sherlock watched in sheer horror as John Watson jumped in front of him, shielding him from the bullet from Moriarty's gun. Sherlock's mind, like many of his various muscles and workings, was not working the way it normally should. It was as though it had been ripped open, exposing raw emotions and a side of himself that he and others rarely saw. This part of him was feeling, throbbing with emotions. Though his logical side reined victorious most of the time, this part of him was still there, waiting and watching patiently. Now, it was out in the open, and there was no way to shut it up again. Not now, at least.

Basically, his mind was not functioning normally, to say the least. He could have deduced that John's wound would not be fatal, not for the time, easily. Finally, things began to function again, but slowly. His hearing came first, and the first thing he could hear was John's quiet, constrained yelp. It sounded like a dog that, after years of being kicked around, had just learned how to quiet itself, had learned to just take the beating and be as quiet as possible.

The sound broke Sherlock's heart, if he had one. Was this what it had been like in Afghanistan when he had been shot? Had he trained himself for something like this? Or was he used to the pain? Was he used to hiding it? Time had been moving so unbearably slow up until now, but at this point it picked back up. John hit the floor, footsteps echoed through the building, and then it was silent.

Sherlock did not for a second think of chasing after Moriarty. Any other time, he would have done so. But any other time, John Watson would not be lying on the floor before him, crimson liquid streaming from his chest in rivulets. Instead, he was instantly at John's side.

"John! John! Don't you dare die on me!" He hissed. He shook John's shoulders, which seemed ineffective with the blank stare John was giving him. That stare, it haunted him down to the core. It was emotionless, devoid of anything at all. This was not the John Watson he knew. He was fading quickly. Sherlock got out his phone and quickly dialed Lestrades' number. He knew it would be quicker than actually calling the police.

"Ambulance! Now. Pool that Carl Powers was killed in." He spat into the phone, hearing Lestrades' stuttering voice on the other side of the phone. He hung up, ignoring the man, and turned back to John. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted.

_NO!_

"John! Don't you dare!" He yelled. He slapped John's cheek gently. John moaned a little. Sherlock noticed how white and sheen his face was with sweat. Even so, with the implication of the pain he must be feeling, his face was strangely neutral. Sherlock sighed and took his jacket off. _Pressure will help to stop the bleeding. _He thought. He balled it up, and then pressed it against the raw and bloody wound. John flinched at this, but tried desperately to cover it up.

Sherlock scoffed. He realized what was going on. He wiped John's face carefully with his sleeve. The motion was kind, almost motherly in a sense. "You don't have to be a soldier for me." He said quietly, locking eyes with him as he wiped his face gently. Of course, trying to play strong for him. He should have known better. John Watson was no mystery to him, there was no deduction needed to tell that he was a brave and moral man. Sherlock sighed heavily and looked down. "God John. Why? Why did you feel it was necessary to go and do that?" He croaked. His voice came so crackled and it sounded foreign in his throat.

He was not expecting an answer, but he got one. "You…You're the only one who can catch him. You're brilliant Sherlock. You can catch him." John wheezed. His breathing was strained and quick, and the blood was pumping faster.

"Hush. Don't talk, your moving will speed the bleeding." Sherlock replied. He was quiet for a moment before muttering, "And besides, I couldn't do it without you, Doctor Watson" His exterior was beginning to crumble. Sherlock was just beginning to consider the possibility of losing this man, his gentle and sweet companion. He realized he never wanted this to happen. So of course, both he and John were stunned when tears began to trail down his cheek. He was never one to show much emotion, but that crack, that fracture in his mind had allowed this one thing to slip out.

"I…" he began to say, but he could not find the words to explain himself. Things like this, mysteries like this could not be explained. No amount of words could justify what had happened today. Crying for his companion was just about the sweetest thing he had done as of late.

John shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his pained face. "Sherlock, don't worry about me, I'll be fine." He earnestly replied. Even through his pain he was still the doctor, the one who protected and reassured others. He reached out to pat his hand, the gesture strained with pain, but was surprised when Sherlock grabbed onto it and squeezed it tightly. He _needed_ that lifeline, that kindness. He held onto John's hand as if it was his last hope of living. The moment was brief, both observing the other. The warmth coursed through John's veins and to his head, and as he slipped into a sweet, velvety unconsciousness, he was comforted with this tender gesture.

Then, Sherlock heard the shrieking of the ambulance. "They've come for you, soldier." He said, a small smile on his face. John did not respond. Sherlock panicked when he realized that the 'soldier' had passed out. Even after the paramedics (attempted to) reassure him, he refused to leave his comrade. However, when they got to the hospital, they ushered him out of the room. The last glimpse he got of John was a weak, feeble looking creature in desperate need of medical attention, and that worried him deeply.

He was stuck in the waiting room for the next hour and a half. The time passed like eternity to him, and he found himself constantly running his hands through his hair or wringing them. He felt so unbearably guilty. He was responsible for this. John had put himself on the line for him, and he knew that. But _why?_ Why did he do it? Sherlock could have easily jumped out of the way. It wasn't necessary for John to do that. And besides, Moriarty could have aimed it at him either way. John's sacrifice could have been wasted.

Oh. He understood now. In John's mind, one person would be shot by the end of the night. The odds of it being him or Sherlock was high. He had decided that Sherlock's life was more important, even if it wouldn't last much longer than his. He had been trying to give Sherlock the chance to escape, to perhaps get away. But he couldn't have left, even if he _had_ wanted to. (Which he hadn't.)

"_You're brilliant..you can catch him.."_ He had said it himself. He had deemed Sherlock as more important. That was the logical answer…but was it the right one?

Sherlocks' thoughts were interrupted when a doctor came up to him. "Mr. Holmes, I assume. You can come back with me now." They walked through the doors. "We were able to remove the bullet. It was lodged pretty deep in his chest, and he lost a lot of blood." He explained. Sherlock nodded. The fact that John had lost a lot of blood was hindering to his survival.

"How did you know I was Sherlock Holmes?" He asked.

"Well, Mr. Watson muttered your name and looked right at you when he went through those doors. He wouldn't stop saying your name until we gave him the sedative, in fact. If Sherlock's paler complexion could have supported a blush, he would have been as red as a scarlet rose by now. However, only his ears turned pink.

"So, what would you say are his chances of living?" He asked tentatively, trying to not seem too interested. The doctor paused in front of a door, and looked at him.

"Well, you are the famous Sherlock Holmes, you do the math." He said gently. He opened the door, allowing Sherlock to go in. Inside, he found the ghost of John Watson. He was hooked up to many machines, and he was so pale. His face was twisted slightly in pain. Sherlock was instantly at his side again, giving him a concerned once over. He noticed a chair on the left side of the bed and went to sit down, scooting it to the edge of the bed. Sherlock did the math, and found that the odds were in John's favor, but not by much.

He sighed deeply, his mind filled with different, obscure thoughts. Jim Moriarty…what should he do about him? Well, the obvious answer was to find him and end him, but how? What if John did..die? He shuddered at the thought of it. He had not realized how attached he had become to John, and he feared the affections ran deeper than he knew.

He didn't honestly know whether he was straight or not. He had never had a girl friend, and never had really been interested in girls. Then again, he had never been interested in men either. But John was something different. While others stayed away, he timidly weaseled his way into Sherlock's mind, and perhaps even his heart.

He knew of course that he had a heart, realistically speaking. He did have feelings too. He knew he did. He was excited by murders; angered by inane people, and saddened when the case was solved. But John, he made him feel something different. He was truly happy when he was with him. Idly, Sherlock checked his watch. 3:05 AM. He was exhausted, but he didn't want to leave John. Sleep, he realized, was not an option. He wasn't going anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello all!**

**I am pleased to have gotten such positive responses already. I think I am going to continue this story, but it probably won't be much more than four chapters or so. I really appreciate the reviews and the favorites, but more would be nice! :]**

**Thanks my fellow Sherlockians!**

**xoxox Doctor Sherlock**

-John POV-

Bullet. Pain. Blood. Sherlock. Pain. Hands touching. Soldier. Black. Pain. Sherlock. John's thought process rotated between these things. He had remembered Sherlock caring to him by the pool, grabbing his hand and holding it there, calling him 'soldier' and 'my favorite doctor'. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was in a hospital. Pain. It was morning, that much he could tell. Pain. He could feel the chest wound. It was ragged and it hurt like hell. His medicine must have been wearing off.

He stretched out his hands, allowing his back to arch, though he winced. He felt his left hand in something soft…hair. He turned, and realized he was not alone. A figure was hunched over the bed, his arms folded and his head resting on top of them. His minty blue eyes were closed, and his hair nearly covered them. His breathing was slow and even, heavy with deep sleep. A small, almost unseen smile appeared on his face. Sherlock. John ruffled his hair lightly. Sherlock mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and turned his head.

John observed his companion carefully. _He looks so peaceful when he's a sleep. So innocent._ He, on the other hand, was a fitful sleeper. He had plenty of dreams; dreams that made him twist and contort in sleep. He was brought out of his thoughts when a nurse opened the door and came in. She smiled sympathetically at him when she saw he was awake. "Well, I see you're up and about. I'm here to give you more pain medication, which I'm sure you'll welcome soon." She explained.

"Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you…Ehm, how long has _he_ been here?" He asked. She turned to look at Sherlock and her smile widened for a moment, then she became quite solemn very quickly, trying to hide her amusement.

"Oh, poor dear. He simply refused to leave. I tried to get him to at least lay down, but he was very persistent. He's been here since you came in; I'm surprised he didn't fall asleep sooner. He probably fell asleep just a few minutes ago, in fact. Every time _I_ came in he was awake. He's quite a bright young thing." She explained while inserting his medication into his IV.

John stared at the consulting detective in wonder. Never would he have expected him to stay, let alone care this much. "There's more to you than I imagined." John mused. The drugs were beginning to take effect, and he was becoming drowsy. He sighed in content, his left hand quite warm and content where it was. He dreamt of the war again. He always did. The thrill of the battle, the pride he felt when he knew he had saved someone's life. Yes, Mycroft had been right, he did miss it. But he had a new sort of thrill, something all his own. It was Sherlock.

Their adventures together had always been exciting, and he didn't know what he would do with himself every day without it. Was that why he had shielded Sherlock from the bullet? Probably. It was the most logical idea. He really couldn't think of why else. He depended on Sherlock for excitement, but now he was beginning to realize he could depend on him in other ways as well. No, he wasn't exactly the easiest person to live with. In fact, he could be quite infuriating sometimes. John could think of more than one occasion on which he wished he could throw something heavy at him and get away with it.

He could be perfectly unbearable, especially when he was in a bad mood. His experiments in the kitchen often left John's appetite unappeased and spoiled as well. His criticisms of John and the rest of the world's intelligence made him often feel insignificant and ignorant. But, despite all that, John had found something secret and charming about him. It was something that no one else knew existed, but it did. Sherlock cared. He really did. He didn't always show it, but deep inside he had compassion. It was not often well displayed, but it was there. John found himself recalling more than one occasion where Sherlock had displayed this. He had waited for John on numerous occasions when he was in pain. He was very good company, and possessed the curiosity and shy kindness of a child. It wasn't that he didn't feel, it was that he didn't know how to show it.

Idly, he remembered the row they had had earlier. Yes, John had felt disappointed in him. Even now, he still felt a little bit upset by it all. The whole case disturbed him. A consulting criminal? That was stranger than being a consulting detective. Despite this, he had to admit this was thrilling. He sighed quietly, the medication finally taking affect, and drifted off to sleep again.

When he woke up later, it was quiet and dark. Had he slept all day?

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." He heard a soft, sweet voice say. Ah. He turned and saw that Sarah was standing next to his bed, flowers in her arms, with a smile on her face. He turned slightly to his left and found a very sour looking Sherlock. "How are you doing, John?" She asked in a much less official voice.

"I've seen better days." He said with a chuckle. Sherlock tensed and flinched visibly at this. She nodded. "Eh..how are you today?" He asked a bit awkwardly. The tension in the room was so thick he could cut it with a knife.

"I'm doing quite well." She said with a laugh. They visited for about a half an hour, the whole time Sherlock sitting there with arms folded and a sour look on his face.

"Listen, I've got to get back to the office. I hope to see you soon." She said with an earnest smile.

"Thanks Sarah. See you later." He said with a small, returning smile. She waved and winked at Sherlock, who gave her a look capable of melting her face off, if such things could happen of course. "Well well, what's with you sour puss?" He asked, eyeing Sherlock with some amusement.

For a moment, it was completely silent. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes burning with knowledge that he knew would sting. "She's sleeping with another man." He muttered quietly. He looked up, waiting for a response. John just stared. This woman, a woman who he was remotely interested in, was sleeping with another man? Then came the fire.

"Sherlock, why do you have to ruin every little bit of happiness I have? Does it make you feel better about yourself?" John snapped, venom evident in his voice. He wasn't really mad at Sherlock, madder at Sarah, but Sherlock was there and was someone he could take his anger out on. The silence of before returned, and in that brief time, John gave witness to what most thought would begin an apocalypse. Sherlock's face dropped. He looked hurt, truly hurt. His eyes seemed to shut down, empty irises of despair.

"The reason I told you is because I don't want her to hurt you! I _want_ for you to be happy. Your happiness is more important to me than a lot of things. I _care_ about you John, more than you seem to realize. " Sherlock replied in a tight, constricted voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have…matters to attend to." He got up and left the room, his shoulders stiff and his face emotionless. The door shut behind him with a gentle click.

Immediately, guilt flooded John's physique. His shoulders slumped and he felt like the worst person in the world. His hands immediately went to his face, covering the already faltering countenance. "Sherlock..I'm sorry." He moaned quietly, rubbing his temples. The one person who had cared so much about him, verbally declaring that he did so, had just been pushed away from him, because of him. He wouldn't be surprised if he never came back, and shoved his stuff onto the street at this point.

-Sherlock POV-

He had reached out, just this once, only to be burned. He was scorched, the injury created causing him to stiffen and his stomach to lurch in pain. He walked down the hospital hallway, his steps quick and sharp. He rounded the corner, but stopped. Did he really want to leave? Oh sure, he knew he should feel that way, but now he just wanted to crawl back into the room and apologize, and say that he made the whole thing up only to cause John to not fancy her anymore. No, he had been actually telling the truth. He could smell the traces of cologne on her, as well as men's deodorant. She had obviously just come from a late night excursion from her lover, only to visit a man who held high respect for her. Just the thought of it disgusted him.

He sighed and turned around, already making his way back to the room. He came up to the door and knocked hesitantly, but got no response. "John?" He asked tentatively. When he still didn't get an answer, he pushed open the door. John was staring off into space it seemed. "John?" he repeated tentatively. Suddenly, his form slumped.

That was when Sherlock realized something was terribly wrong. "Nurse, come quick!" He called. He ran to the doctor's side, and inspected him carefully. Not breathing. He hadn't left for more than a few minutes, so there was still a chance that he was alive. Sherlock thought through it quickly. The nurse was taking her sweet time, and he knew the lack of oxygen could cause John to go brain dead. Very carefully, he positioned his hands on his chest and began pumping, but this did not work. Well, there was only one thing he could do.

He opened John's mouth, idly wondering what on earth would come of this. He just crossed his fingers that this would work. He wasted no time and began trying to breath life back into his companion. Idly, he noted that their lips were touching, and that others would probably see this as romantic. To him, it was a matter of life or death. He breathed in, and tried again. Suddenly, he felt a jolt go through John's system and his eyes flew open.

Picture this: You are a man that just went into cardiac arrest, only to be woken up by a close friend of yours, who happens to be a man, giving you mouth to mouth.

And the most interesting part?

You actually kind of like it.

**Read and review! Tell me what you think! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello ladies and gents!**

**Sorry for such a long delay, I've been so busy…I had exams and such and this chapter was giving me issues, especially because I didn't know what to write. I hope you all like this. Next chapter will be better, I promise. **

**Much love, Doctor Sherlock. **

John's eyes flew open, only to be met by the sight and proximity of Sherlock. The first thing he did was blush a violent red. Sherlock pulled away, acting like everything was normal. He looked worried. "John, are you alright?" He asked, his voice laced with concern.

"I…I uh.." He stammered. Suddenly, doctors and nurses flew in, breaking the very awkward moment between the two. They worked around John in a whirlwind, taking his pulse and heart rate, and trying to figure out what was wrong. All the time Sherlock hovered like an anxious mother hen. When they finally concluded that he was okay and this would probably not happen again, his shoulders sagged in relief. He sat down on the couch next to the bed and let out a long breath he had been holding in. "Eh Sherlock…" He heard a shy, boyish voice say. He looked up. "I eh..wanted to say thank you. They said if you hadn't been here I might have gone brain dead or died. And also, I'm sorry about what I said." He muttered. He looked ashamed, as though almost dying had made him a terrible person.

"You have nothing to apologize for. What I said was totally out of line." Sherlock replied cordially. He came to John's side. "I did mean what I said. I'm not out to ruin your life." He explained quietly.

"I know you aren't. I understand Sherlock; it's not easy for you. I know you care though, and that's all that matters to me." John said, offering up an earnest smile. Sherlock returned it, his heart fluttering in just the slightest.

A few days later, the doctor finally deemed John able to go home. He gave Sherlock strict instructions, telling him he mustn't do anything that will reopen the wound and that he needed to take it easy for a while. Sherlock nodded and absorbed these words as though he were defusing a bomb and needed to know the instructions exactly. He was _not_ going to let John get hurt or get himself hurt again. He refused to let that happen.

The pair walked into the house, and found that Ms. Hudson was there to great them. "Sherlock, John, where have you two been? I have been so worried. I bought you fresh groceries because everything was starting to spoil…" She said, flittering about and giving each of them a tight hug. She had grown fond of the two men, and had truly begun to worry about them when they did not return that night. She remembered Sherlock idly saying that he was going out, and then he disappeared as though evaporating into the air.

"We had to…take care of some things." John muttered, choosing his words carefully.

"John was hurt. We had to go to the hospital." Sherlock said bluntly, taking off his coat and helping John up the stairs.

"The hospital? John dear are you all right?" She cried.

"Nothing I haven't gone through before." He replied weakly. Sherlock flinched at this, a strange expression coming over his face.

"Well, I'll make you two some tea…" She said, seeing the pained look on Sherlock's face.

"Thank you Ms. Hudson, but we won't be needing that." Sherlock said swiftly. "We're going out tonight. I owe John a good meal." This was news to John, and he looked up at his companion.

"Yes, we are. I figure this is the least I can do to thank you." He replied, a small smile on his face. "Now, rest up and we'll go out in a while. Let me know when you feel ready. I've got to run down to the station and talk to Lestrade; he's been phoning me all night, thinks he has a right to meddle in our business." Sherlock said, an almost smug look crossing his features.

"Then why are you going to talk to him?" John asked.

"He told me that he would do another drug's bust, and I never want Anderson to set foot into this apartment again." He replied curtly. John chuckled at this. "Now John, don't you go out running around. Rest up." Sherlock instructed, giving his friend a look of careful observation. "I refuse to have you getting hurt again." He mumbled to himself quietly, before exiting the room.

John stared after him. He had never heard Sherlock be this caring before, and it was rather shocking.

"Well dear, you do what he says and rest yourself. I'll bring you up some tea." Ms. Hudson said kindly. She left the room and left John to himself for a while. For the most part, he sat back and watched television. There wasn't anything that particularly interesting on, but then he came upon _Doctor Who_ reruns and decided to watch those.

Even though these captured his attention enough to keep him busy, he felt restless. He was ready to get back out there again and solve more cases with Sherlock. He didn't want to sit here and do nothing. He didn't like it. Sure, he was still in pain. He could feel the wound throbbing underneath the bandages he was wearing, but it didn't bother him. He was used to this. He wanted to be back out there. He was just finishing the finale of the third season when he heard the door downstairs open. _It's about time._ He thought to himself. He was so _bored_! He heard someone head up the stairs and open the door, and was surprised to find Sarah.

She was dressed rather scandalously. She had a short, red dress on. Of course it made her look beautiful, but there was something _off_ about her. She looked a bit disheveled, as though she had just come from some sort of late night excursion. "Hello there, John. I just came to see if you'd like to go out to dinner with me." She said cheerily. "I know it's late notice, but I just couldn't stop thinking about you." She purred.

"Sorry, I've already got plans." He muttered. He didn't like this, not at all.

"But John," She whined. "I came all this way for you…don't leave me hanging." She moved closer to him. She smelled overwhelmingly of men's deodorant. He realized this. Sherlock had been right.

"Sarah, maybe you should go talk to your lover instead." He replied smoothly. Her eyes widened, before she slapped him across the face.

"How-How dare you!" She cried angrily. She was up in his face now.

"Sarah, I think it would be best if you leave." He replied calmly.

"No, not without you. I know you like me." She replied.

"I…I.." He reeled between excuses, but found the best one quickly. "I'm gay, Sarah." He replied quickly. She stared at him in shock.

"Oh..oh it all makes sense now. _That's _why you're here, why you follow him around." Her voice returned to a gentle level. "I-I'm sorry John. I am. I just…I'm so lonely sometimes and…" Her voice croaked. "My husband died a few years ago and I just…I just _need_ someone there."

He sighed. He should just cast her out onto the street, but then he got up, and embraced her lightly. "It's okay, Sarah." He held her for a moment, but then pulled away from her. "I think it'd be best if you leave. You know Sherlock, he's very…particular."

"I see now. He was jealous. Every time I was there he was upset, and he never liked me." She explained. John had never thought about it that way. "alright, I'll head out. Please John, can we still be…friends?" She asked carefully. He nodded, before escorting her out of the house.

He returned to his show, and about an hour later he heard the door open again. He sighed in relief. This _must _be Sherlock. Sure enough, the one and only consulting detective in the world appeared at the door. "Afternoon John-" He started.

"Hush, it's getting to the part where Martha tells the Doctor she's in love with him." John replied sarcastically. "How'd it go with Lestrade?" He asked.

"Oh just fine. We cleared up the details. They haven't found anything yet, but they're looking." He explained. He sat down on the couch. "So how was your afternoon?" asked.

"Eh..interesting." He replied.

"I see. I ran into Sarah on my way here…was she here earlier?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, yeah she was. She wanted me to go to dinner with her." John replied.

"Oh, and what did you say?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow quirked.

"I told her I had previous engagements.." John said, a smile evident on his face.

"I see. Good. Ready to head out?"

"Quite. I'm starving."

As they headed down the stairs, John realized that he would indeed much rather go to dinner with Sherlock than Sarah, especially with the way she had behaved. He understood how she felt about being lonely though. He too felt that way. Strangely, he wasn't very upset about finding out she was with another man. It didn't bother him as much as he expected it would.

Sherlock appeared to be lost in thought, but he was thinking of the encounter he had had with Sarah in the street. He had come upon her coming up the street and that was when he began to get suspicious. It was obvious in the way that she was dressed that she was trying to seduce someone. But who? Quickly he realized she must be walking back from their apartment. She saw him and approached him. There were tears in her eyes-well that was a promising sign- but a soft smile on her face.

"You're lucky to have him, you know." She said softly. He looked over her.

"I know." He replied.

"Please remember that…and take care of him." She instructed. "You two…you belong together." She whispered, before departing.

Her last words stuck with him until this very moment.

_You two belong together. _

**Hehe. Did you all like my Doctor Who reference? Because I certainly did. I just watched that episode a week ago. It made me cries. :(**

**Read and Review!**


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